


Various Dragon Age Drabbles

by MERSCoV



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Family, Flirting, Fluff, Grief, Humor, Multi, Romance, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-17
Updated: 2014-02-25
Packaged: 2018-01-12 20:19:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 6,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1198326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MERSCoV/pseuds/MERSCoV
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some drabbles I wrote. Feel free to give feedback.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stories

**Author's Note:**

> Merrill gets drunk and nostalgic.

The Hanged Man was just as boisterous as ever. Nora sidled from table to table, waving off unwanted advances with a slap on the wrist and a sassy comment at the ready. A stringed instrument played tunelessly in the background, accompanied by tavern chatter and the smell of piss. Still, there was one thing a little out of place tonight.

"SO _THEEEENNNN_ Tamlen wuz all "NO _SHIT_ , MAHARIEL," an’ I wuz mo’tified obviously becuz I wuz cove’ed in halla poo an’ so Keepah Ma’ethari finally sed "All’s well that ends _smell_." AN’ IT WAS THE _FUNNIEST_ I SWEAR I-" Merrill was a very animated drunk, alcohol sloshing out of the cup as her hands flailed about in her fervent attempts to explain just how hilarious her story was. Isabela smirked, unsure if she should be amused or embarrassed for the poor girl.

"Kitten," She cooed, sobered enough. "Maybe you should lay off the drinks for a while. At least before you strip down to your underclothes and start singin’ about 99 bottles of beer on the wall."

" _OH_ , 99 BOTTLES OF BEER ON THE WALL-" A hand was clamped down on her open mouth, stopping the spout of off-key song before it continued. Isabela laughed though. "You’ve had a cup too many, I wager."

Merrill shook off the hand, giggling. “I’m sowwy. ‘eally. I just-” Then, she hiccuped, her shoulders popping involuntarily. “Ah I just… I wanted you to know cuz I- You have so many sto’ies and I- Tamlen and Mahariel… They…” Then, her eyes watered and her smile was wide and contorted with something like pain. “They-“

"I know, kitten, it’s alright," Isabela only said and took the elf into her arms, comforting her the only way she really knew how.

"I miss them so much."

"I know."


	2. Full Extent of the Law

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rogue!Inquisitor/Cassandra Modern AU where Cassandra is a police officer who takes no shit. I might actually turn this into a full-out fanfic if it's good enough.

"You have the right to remain silent-" Officer Pentaghast started as she shoved the thief with the long hair and blue eyes against the fence, pinning her there as she fumbled for the handcuffs.

"What you say can be used against you in a court of law," The felon finished with a smirk, panting and breathless. "Are you sure you want me in a cell?" There was a strange promise in that voice, husky and low. Thick with unspoken desire.

At the clink of handcuffs, the thief only continued, egged on rather than discouraged. “Never thought you’d be into bondage, officer.” She arched her back, and Cassandra responded with a grunt of frustration.

"Trust me, I’ve got better things to do than dally about with a criminal."

"Criminal? Or object of forbidden desire?" Teasing, surely.

But there was truth in that, and they both knew it.

They had danced around this for years. It was a sequence they knew by heart by now. Ever since Officer Cassandra Pentaghast graduated from the Police Academy in her early twenties, she thought of herself as straight-laced, duty-bound. Objective. However, a couple years in and she was stuck on a case involving a young thief, one she just couldn’t arrest. Until now.

Even when she managed to pin her or tie her up or knock her out, she’d hesitate and then be taken advantage of. Her weakness, she declared, was being appalled at winning an unfair fight. She would triumph by honor or not triumph at all.

"How ‘bout it, Pentaghast?" The felon purred, feline in its charm and intonation. She grinded her backside against Cassandra’s front, mocking her with the mere question of doubt.

"You’re impossible," She growled in turn, ignoring the flush of warmth spreading outwards from her stomach.

"And you’re attractive."

Soon enough, her lips found the other woman’s ear as she leaned forward, closing the little distance that remained. “Do not try me.”

"I think I will," Then, again with the grinding.

The problem was Cassandra let restraint fly with the wind, a moan accidentally leaving her lips to grace the thief’s ear.

"Mmm, I like the sound of that." The criminal against the fence mumbled, turning around in Cassandra’s grip. They were face-to-face now.

"I’m arresting you," Cassandra muttered dumbly, eyebrows threaded and furrowed.

"Mhmm, sure."

"Really. I am."

But they were against one another again and not one inch closer to Cassandra’s car with the iconic lights atop it. They were bathed in blinking red and blue lights, alternating hues at different time intervals. Eventually, it was in perfect chorus with the grinding of hips and the exchanging of breaths.

Lips crashed, shaping one another and conforming about eachother. They were wet clay and sculptor’s hands all at the same time, wrapping and kneading - not to mention _needing_. “Mmm”

“Ahhh”

“Right there.”

“Mmm _hmm_ ”

“I like you, y’know.”

“No, you don’t.”

She disentangled herself from Madam Police to whisper very clearly, with such conciseness, “ _Yes_ , I do.”

"We shouldn’t."

"Only if you're gonna turn me in right after."

"I would never do something so underhanded. I can’t believe you-" But then her lips were cut off by a hard kiss. Which was so fierce it ended with a noise in the back of her throat at its absence.

"I know." And then they were at it again, clothes not even being abandoned.


	3. Potions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Basically, this is some Cullen/Female Healer Mage Inquisitor. He's head over heels. She's oblivious. It's as if you took Carver/Merrill except if Merrill had diplomatic!hawke's personality.

"Lady Inquisitor!"

  
She turned in her seat, "Yes, Cullen?"

  
He stopped in her doorway as he doubled over, never daring to enter her room. She never seemed to notice. He never bothered to elaborate. It was a strange dynamic born out of caution, misunderstanding, and some semblance of respect. Nothing that would have primed her to expect him like this, panting and exhausted.

"You're flushed," She commented, "Now, what is so important that you had to run over here?" She crossed her arms over her chest, light-colored robes dangling from her arms far too loosely to be considered fitted. The pastel colors clashed against her dark skin, the shape and size dwarfing the young woman in turn. Sometimes, one had to wonder if she ever left to go robe-shopping.

  
Instead of such a weird suggestion being made, he awkwardly stuck out his hand in offering, fist clenching some elfroot, spindleweed, and ambrosia. "Uh, herbs! Ahem, I-I figured you required some more."

She stared at the plants in his hand for a long time. "Herbs," She repeated incredulously.  
  
  
"I- Sera gathered them outside. I assumed it was best to put them to good use." He shifted uncomfortably, and she drew her eyes to his face to see that he was very interested in the pattern on her drapes. She followed his line of sight and then turned back to him, noting that his attention was back on her. How strange.

"Ah, I should thank you then, for the... herbs _,_ " She remarked, a hint of sarcasm drenching her tone. "One can never have too many crafting resources."

"Y-Yes, I agree."

His gaze and hers finally and truly collided, two stars combining like a trainwreck about to occur. Whatever the wreckage be, it would be so cruel as to consume them both heart and soul. It was almost as if one had a fish eye's view of one of Varric's less smuttier tales, romance and idealism that the dwarf might have once embraced now only to be mocked and deconstructed and subverted. He was the first to snap out of it, shaking his head and turning on his heel.

"I should leave you to it then."

"Thank you."

But he was leaving and a thought came to mind.

"And Cullen?" She mumbled. He stopped in his tracts, turning his head to look back at her for a final time.

"Yes, milady?"

She smiled, "They're beautiful."


	4. Finery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inquisitor Trevelyan is not used to finery and manners.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is basically a barbarian!origin human male warrior who left home to become a Reaver and sword-for-hire before he ended up becoming the Inquisitor on accident.

_Stupid yes-men._

"Yes, Your Eminance."

_Stupid fancy guests._

"Of course, Your Eminance."

_Stupid expectations._

"Inquisitor, is that all you require?"

_I never wanted any of this in the first place._

"....Your Eminance?" came a hesitant voice, one that struck him from his dozing.

"Uh, yes?" Trevelyan straightened, silken shirt rubbing up against the callouses in his skin in a way that wasn't unpleasant. He frowned, feeling the walls close in on him once again.  
The man had to force himself to focus on the agent in front of him. 

"Are you alright?" The older man had a kind voice, the sort might expect from a wisened healer or a grandfatherly merchant. "You were staring off into space."

"Yeah, I'm sor- I apologize greatly." It took him great effort to carve his slackened dialects into something more formal-sounding, but such things were more than expected of the leader of such an important organization. He was rubbing shoulders with kings, magisters, keepers, and more. It could do no wrong to hold himself with some damned dignity. "I should not-"

"You had a tiring day."

 _Boring's more like it._ However, he kept that thought to himself. "It would not do to have potential allies see me as weak."

"Or disinterested," The man added.

"Or disinterested." He agreed with a sigh.

"Besides, I doubt that someone with your background could be seen as weak."

He stiffened. "Wh- I beg your pardon, ser?" Suddenly, swallowing felt as audible as a metal fork scraping against porcelain at one of those dinner parties, clinging and clanging all throughout the room until everyone could hear. And this was a pretty large room and he not so large a man as he thought himself to be.

"You _were_ a mercenary, were you not? Not only that, but one who consumed dragon blood. A reaver, a warrior who _thrives_ on pain." 

He could not believe how flippantly the old geezer had described it. "How- How would you know about such things?"

"I was not _born_ wrinkled as a prune and forgetful as sunshine, dear boy."

Trevelyan chuckled nervously, the collar of his blouse suddenly feeling very restricting. "It's not that obvious, is it? The mercenary bit...not the- whatever you were up to at my age."

To that, the man only smiled, whether at his memories or in answer to the Inquisitor's inquiry one could not be sure. 


	5. Hunting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Orlais has a thriving thieves' guild. In Val Royeaux it appears to operate at least in part in the sewers, making use of the sous de gens, the poorest of the poor who live there." What if Sera, a potential companion, is Orlesian?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place years and years before the start of DA:Inqusition, so, no, Sera hasn't amassed a reputation in the criminal underground yet.

Belle Marché is the perfect place for thievery.

Sera knows this. The City Guard knows this. It's bustling with all sorts of well-to-do people going about their daily lives in such a daze of merriment and illusion that it didn't allow these players to keep their wits about them. Who was to notice if a couple coins here and there went missing? No one rich and important enough, that's who. In Orlais, especially in their capital city, presentation of wealth is far more important than the actuality of it.

It's not as though Val Royaux ever sought to advertise it otherwise, and that's fine enough for a runt of an elf that relies on this marketplace for her very livelihood.

 _One day_ , she thinks, _one day I won't need to_. Her stare captures that of another rogue in the shadows, a pickpocketer, a scoundrel, just like her. But no, not like her, because _she's_ going to get out. She knows it. The very thought has this powerful urgency to it that she just can't ignore. She feels it singing in her veins like she imagines one of those lyrium-addled templars hovering about the Grand Cathedral can feel that blue liquid buzzing their nerves. That, or maybe they can't feel anything anymore. 

Not as though there are elves lining up to join the Order or anything.

She glances over to see that her fellow thief in hiding was gone. "Hmm," She thinks little of it. He is a stranger, not a friend. No need to feel responsible. Besides, who was to say he wasn't out scoring big right now? All that really matters is that _she_ get some decent coin today.

There isn't anyone she loves back home counting on the stranger with the wide, frantic eyes. She grips more tightly on her cloak, resolve reestablishing itself.

And then Sera slinks and slides smoothly between stalls and skillfully painted faces. She is a lithe jungle cat hunting for her kill. In her element, she is almost elegant in her deadliness, gracefully clinging to shadows and sneaking through gaps between consumers, dagger hidden away from the light of day.

There are common folk among the crowds as well, whom she avoids. She's not sure why. Maybe it's their soot-covered hands and dirt-streaked clothes that they try so hard to cover up that hits too close to home for her. She doesn't believe in sympathy, but she wouldn't wish poverty on anyone. _Not that I care_ , she insists. There is pragmatism in her avoidance of the poorer lot. They are not willing players of the Great Game. They have no roles to play, and they have no propriety to stop them from chasing after a thief. 

They also have far more to lose.

She shudders - and not for the first time- at the thought of rock bottom.

Because, as she seeks out finely-dressed targets and hides behind skirts and billowing curtains, it's not just a consequence of inaction but a very real possibility.

Masking her barely hidden fears, she seeks out her own Great Game. She smirks as she swipes a few coins from a man in red proclaiming that his pants are "the most superior pants in all of Orlais!!" then snorts in satisfaction as she steals from a woman bending over to inspect some merchandise with the insistence that the gemstones were faked. The noblewoman is right, but _still_. Sometimes the rich folk just made it too easy for her.

For a moment, she thinks someone might have caught her picking their pocket, but their attention is diverted elsewhere.

A shadow looms then, a storm cloud over a busy intersection of stalls. There is a lull in the obnoxious chatter of the elite. She feels her gut twist, queasy.

Something is wrong.

"I arrest you in the name of the Divine, apostate!"

 _And there it is_. A familiar chill runs down her spine. She does not hesitate to fall back into familiar, comforting shadows as the crowd concentrates around the barking voice of a Templar. She does not know what she was expecting. Templars here are notoriously stabbity-happy, she remembers once again only to forget.

"No- I- _Ahhh_ -" The mage makes noises of pain, like a wounded puppy kicked to the brink. She peers over to see the apostate, and his eyes meet hers - _wide, frantic eyes_. Knowing eyes, eyes that must have known exactly what she was doing. She couldn't help but wonder why someone on the run wouldn't use a criminal as a distraction. Unless...

She shakes her head and begins to leave while all the attention is still on the Templar and the unfortunate mage. She can't afford to stick around too long.

Not that she _doesn't_ steal a few harmless trinkets during the ruckus, it is only that she does so quickly and without noise.

\--------

She thumbs her profits in the pocket of her cloak as she strides through alleyways and the undercity, the only places she feels somewhat safe. The world out in the open is too bright and full of lies. At least, down here, everyone _knows_ there is no honor. She is marked by her skill and her personality, not just her unfortunately-shaped ears. Yet, she is not home, not yet. Sera rounds a corner, climbs down a metal ladder, and continues on the path she had more than memorized. Every inch of her being was etched onto these creaking pipes and stinking waste waters. It looks terrible, and it smells worse. There is barely even a flicker of sunlight down here, but she is almost home and the intimacy in her memories colors the route from such frequent usage.

When she first enters the small pocket in the sewers that she named "Home," she is greeted by a little blonde flinging her arms around her.

"Seraaa!" And Sera cannot hold back a smile as the short girl pulls away slightly to meet her gaze. "Didja get me anythin'?"

"Hmmm," Sera answers quizzically, a hand thumbing her chin as she mock-considers the question. " _Did_ I? I didn't _get_ anything for cute little girls who don't say please."

Her little sister practically jumps up and down. "Pleeeaaase!?" Damn, that kid got her every time, didn't she?

Sera laughs and ruffles the girl's hair. "Sure, I did, kiddo! I would never forget you up there." She waves a hand out to the bustling world up on top of their heads, unwilling to reveal just how true her promise is.

Just as she reaches to grasp something she took from the marketplace, she notices that the candle in the corner was out. She frowned but turned her attention back to the matter at hand. With a flourish, she revealed a little doll. "A beautiful toy for a beautiful girl," She announces, and the smaller elf giggles.

"Oh, and-" A...something. Well, she wasn't sure what this was, but she could bullshit well enough. "A wishing thing..mabob...thing."

The younger sister cocks her head to the side. "Wishing thing mabob thing?"

"Yes! Indeed, it contains little elf-fairies that grant wishes to _good_ little girls that stay _away_ from Templars!" To this, the girl pouted, seeing past the bravado.

"You're just tryna tell me to be more careful and not use any magic," She kicks the gross, very unhygenic sewer waters at their feet. The stench of it is probably stuck in her blood by now, Sera figures.

"Bingo. But, seriously, they do grant wishes," Sera claims with a grin. The little elf laughs in turn at her sibling.

"Liar!" She accuses, mischevious glint in her eye.

"Who're you calling a liar?" Sera says, hands out like paws about to scratch.

The little girl tackles the rogue first, and Sera flips them in response. Her sister squeals with delight as she is tickled, to the point where they are soon both flushed with laughter. Eventually, things calm down, and the little elven girl squeezes the wishing thing mabob thing in her hands. They are quiet, living in their pathetic hovel in the sewer, hiding from Templars and Chevaliers and whatever else that seek to threaten their haven.

"But, really," Sera says, voice smaller, vulnerable even, "Be careful. I don't know what I'd do if I lost you too."

And, in the dark of the sewers, a little girl with pointed ears and the label "apostate" makes a wish the Maker will not grant.


	6. Not a Pond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inquisitor Cadash is getting real tired of Varric's bullshit. Oh, and she agrees to learn how to swim.

"You don't know how to swim?" Cassandra asked, looking over the lake in front of them.

For once, the ever-chatty, always snarktastic Inquisitor Cadash was at a loss for words. She opened her mouth only to close it again, framed by reddening cheeks and damp black hair clinging to the sides of her face. "I- Uh-"

"The Almighty Inquisitor, defeated by a pond!" Varric smirked, his announcement punctuated with a sweeping gesture over the lake in question.

The Lady Inquisitor pouted. "It is not a _pond_."

Cassandra cleared her throat. "We can't go around though, considering the mountain range on one side and the Dalish on the other."

"Swimming after the bandits, then?" Varric replied, smirk still gracing his lips. "Don't try to tell me _you_ can't swim either."

Cassandra chuckled a mirthless laugh and shook her head. "No, everyone knows how to swim."

"Except _me_ , you mean," Cadash mumbled sourly, trying to bore holes into the back of her head with the sheer force of her glaring.

Cassandra turned her head to see her commander's glaring and narrowed her eyes. "I don't mean offense, only that it is a vital skill."

Varric raised his eyebrows suggestively -or, perhaps not suggestively. Cadash didn't have a very expansive imagination. "You can always learn, y'know."

"What's that old Ferelden saying? The one about teaching old dogs new tricks?" The Inquisitor crossed her arms over her chest, heat burning her cheeks.

"Those Fereldens have a lot of sayings. What's important here is that you learn, so that, in the future, bandits don't run off and make us look like idiots with our mouths hanging open."

"Fine, you can teach me a little before lunchtime and then we can forget about mean old bandits with their bandit-y ways. You happy?"

"Elated," He responded charmingly, but something about his expression made her fear for the worst.

~to be continued in another chapter~

 


	7. Shemlen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shemlen through the perspective of different characters: Tamlen, my Mahariel Warden, Velanna, Merrill, and my Dalish Inquisitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They all have very different personalities and perspectives, so I hoped that the narration got that across.

**Tamlen**

I ready my bow, not as accurate a bowman as my friend, but, still, I can make this shot. With how easy the kill would be, I better be able to make this shot.

"You're just in time, Rith. I found these... _humans_ lurking in the bushes. Bandits, no doubt." She is by my side, my best friend, and I know I can take these shemlen. Even through the craziest odds, I know that she'll be here for me.

"We aren't bandits, I swear! Please don't hurt us!" One of the slovenly humans reply, the others cowering.

I feel the urge to laugh. All the time, they hunt our people, enslave us, remove us from lands by force, yet they recoil in fear all the same when we have our bows at the ready. They like to think _they_ are strong, but how can they compare to our might? We may be few, but our skill makes up for this- and _tenfold_. "You shemlen are _pathetic,_ " I see Mahariel give me the side-eye, her pity for them outweighing her suspicions, "It's hard to believe you ever drove us from our homeland."

"We've never done _nothing_ to you Dalish! _We_ didn't even know this forest was yours!" Their panicked leader claims as the men behind him push their hinds off the forest grounds.

"This forest isn't _ours_ fool. You've stumbled too close to our camp. You shems are like vermin-"

" _Tamlen_ ," She whispers, ever so gently like a breeze yet with the urgency of wind. How does she always manage to restrain me so? If she were born with magic, she would have been a natural-born Keeper with all the self-control she exhibits. Still, I sigh, irritated by her interruption even as I- _Creators take me!_ \- understand her reasoning.

"Give them but a warning, as killing them will only cause trouble." She requests, at a tone meant only for my ears. "You've scared them enough."

_No, I haven't_ , I think. Not until the Dalish have their home once again. Is that asking too much?

 

* * *

 

**Rith Mahariel**

The sky above us is dark and full of stars. I sit by the fire, taking all the uninhibited nature in and feeling at ease for the first time in a while. It has been a month since we helped Keeper Zathrian slaughter the werewolves. It has been nearly a week since I stopped questioning my decision concerning said werewolves. It has been a few days since the catastrophe at Redcliffe, hopefully the castle still under control. And, finally, it's been an hour since we set up camp near Lake Calenhad. I've been documenting our time adventuring, to the point where I can recite exactly how long it's been since I felt safe, how long since I last remembered Ashalle's touch, how long since everything I knew was taken from me. I straighten my back and force my frown to turn neutral. I must remind myself that I am not one to brood. I am a Grey Warden, and there is no dishonor in that.

But, as I rotate my attention about the camp, I remember that I am also last of the Elvhenan, a walker of the lonely path. As much as I attempt to be amiable, there is much stumbling. When I see sympathy in their gazes, I cannot help but feel like a helpless child once more, clinging to Ashalle's skirts and hiding from the intimidating hunters of our clan. It is when Leilana chuckles and explains herself, when Alistair makes a self-deprecating joke to make me feel better, and when Sten gives a nod in understanding, that is when I feel most like an outsider. This is when I miss Tamlen the most, my companion who never once saw my distance as fault rather than strength.

And then... And then there is Zevran.

"Ah, may I ask why my beautiful Grey Warden sulks so?" He asks, hovering above me. I smile, despite how ridiculously generous he is with compliments. Even if he's not sincere, it is pleasant in a way I have never before known. Back home, compliments are few, but, when they are spoken, it is with reverence and truest intentions. Zevran, however, gives them freely and uses them to disarm, not unlike my traps and Leilana's songs.

"Mm, now there is a smile. It does a great service for a gorgeous woman," He says with a smirk, satisfied with my reaction.

"And for the man admiring the woman," I add, always taking solace in our banters. Some might say I am flippant, but I find I like this...flirting. It is new to me and makes for a good distraction. And I need an effective distraction after seeing what the Desire Demon did to Connor and Bann Teagan. I then repress the overwhelming urge to shudder. I can only hope that I get to the Circle Tower in time to ask for assistance. Supposedly, there is a ritual we can use to save him, but it requires lyrium and a _lot_ _of_ it.

Zevran must have seen it in my expression because he pulls me again out of the deep, dark pit I found myself in. "Oho, but must you shame the man for doing what is natural? Beauty is meant to be admired and cherished."

"No, by all means. After all, when has shame stopped you before?" I ask in jest, not even noticing that I am no longer hugging my knees. I am leaning back, palms resting on the ground behind me, and he is sitting next to me.

"Our lovely bard was correct then. You _are_ learning, after all." And, strangely enough, I barely resist the urge to giggle and say otherwise.

\------

**Velanna**

The Warden-Commander is... not as bad as I thought she'd be.

Others are suspicious of her, as she is Orlesian and that makes her a threat to the spoiled Ferelden lordlings.

However, to me, she is a fellow elf, a fellow mage at that, and she is empathetic to my cause. Not pity because pity is patronizing and based in a sense of superiority. How could I respect someone who sympathizes, when they have either forgotten the ways of our people or are the reason for our plight in the first place? She is neither, and I want to believe I can trust her.

I may, at times, envy the humans and their tales, being so free as to make them known in the first place. But I'm starting to wonder if the Elvhen are not as lost as the city elves claim, and my new companions give me strength I hadn't known since I was with my clan.

 

\-----

**Merrill**

Sometimes, I wonder if I did the right thing, abandoning my clan - _Marethari_ \- for Kirkwall's alienage.

And this mirror. This _stupid_ mirror.

Even though I try so hard, research every possible answer, anything just for a hint of how to unlock its secrets, it's as if the Creators are conspiring against me. But they aren't, are they? I cringe. Did I just tempt fate?

I shake my head. Varric was right. I should "get out more," whatever that means. I've spent enough time at my old home for today, anyways. Hawke is probably worried, I should go home. But where _is_ home, really? The clan does not accept me, so they're not my home. This place was too small and cramped and full of my sweat and tears to be a proper home. Hawke's mansion is lovely, really, but it doesn't feel right to call it home. I think he knows that.

Even as I leave the Alienage, I look around and see all these glares and hear all these whispers. Do they know about my relationship with Hawke, their Champion? And, how much do they know? Do they know how we make each other feel? Do they know all the things we tell one another to make it through the day? Or, are they like Anders and just _judge_ us?

If my clan knew, they'd judge us. It's not entirely unfounded, once I think about it. He is a human, and they are all across the land. However, my people are dwindling, oppressed and forgotten as they are. They would call me irresponsible and blind. But did they not say this before, about my methods in trying to unlock the secrets of the Eluvian? Yes, if they think they can say such things about one of their own so easily, then they can rot.

I swallow, tears prickling in my eyes. No, I don't mean that, no matter how much I might think it time to time. It's a stupid thought, rooted in my frustration and my guilt.

However, I blink back tears, and I step into the Hawke household, hoping to make Hawke feel less alone than I feel.

 

\----

**Dwylin Lavellan**

I smirk as I cross my arms over my chest, overlooking the process of the smutty tale I myself commissioned. "Oh, Varric, have I ever told you how you're my _faaav_ -or-ite dwarf?"

"Don't say it too much, or you might forget the name of your "favorite" dwarf."

"What was it? Vernin? Vartrand? Oh or maybe-"

I am interrupted by a pillow hitting my oh-so-handsome face, and I gasp audibly. " _Varric!_ " I can't help but scold because _really_?

He gives a wiry smile, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.  "There it is, and here I thought you hit your head harder than we thought earlier. Good to know your memory's still intact."

My jaw has dropped in the most cartoonish manner possible. "Speaking to your commander so! I should have you _flogged_."

"With those puny arms? Kid, you _wish_ ,"  He retorts, dipping his pen into the ink pot before returning to his piles of parchment.

I pout and raise my chin. "Hey, I take offense to that. I'm fairly muscular..."

"For an elf," He finishes for me. "Though, to be fair, I've known some strong elves. You never expect them to be packing on all that muscle."

"Were they Dalish?" I ask, always eager to hear another tale.

"Nope, only really knew one Dalish. I've told you about her, haven't I? Daisy-"

"Oh, right, the blood mage," I say evenly, leaning back against a wooden pillar near his desk. He looks up from his work and shakes his head, the amusement in his gaze gone in an instant.

"She wasn't _just_ a blood mage, though the retellings of the story would have you believe otherwise," He scoffs, as if he's had this conversation a million times before.

"She _slaughtered_ her _clan_." I nearly growl out the words because such a person brings out the worst in me. Just the mere idea is so terrible, and I cannot imagine what this girl thought she could accomplish by doing so.

"Not single-handedly and certainly not unprovoked. They attacked her, Hawke, and the gang first. Then again, I only heard it secondhand from Hawke, and he wasn't exactly... _unbiased_."

"Still, whatever her reasons, doing so is just- ugh, unforgivable." I shake my head and look away, done with this. How can I argue with someone who isn't Elvhen? "Nevermind. I don't expect a shemlen to understand." I don't look back at him as I leave, shoving the door open and slamming it shut behind me.


	8. Plight of the Elves

To elves, loss may be an old and familiar enemy, but it is also their crutch. Even as their minds are elsewhere, even as an elf by the name of Zevran mourns his beloved in her sacrifice for the greater good, even as a Dalish called Merrill hunches over a bloodied hand in hopes of restoring a symbol of the past, even as a former slave named Fenris drinks himself into a stupor with the purpose of _forgetting_ , the elves - scattered as they are- remember all too well the plight of their people.

A demon reaches out to elven mages with this in mind, handing out promises like candy. _You can save the elves... You can show humans just how weak you aren't... Give them something to fear... You know that they will never see you as worthy of respect... You will never be seen as their equal, so be their enemy..._

Somewhere else, a runt of an elf leads an intricate network of thieves and assassins, clinging to her identity as much as she rejects it. She pretends that she does not remember the smile of a girl that looked much like her, with hopes and dreams and the same blood running through her veins. Occasionally, she whispers the girl's name, but, then, she forces herself to forget since losses are meant to not be dwelled upon. _Sister? There is no sister anymore. I am alone._ Still, she sleeps with a momento of her, and she never trusts a Templar ever again.

Farther up in status is a woman who trades in secrets and intrigue. She kisses her Empress and loves her as she had for the longest time, but, when her love is asleep beside her, she remembers the elven girl in the streets she witnessed dying of starvation and disease, begging for a copper from her- a fellow elf. All she wanted was to _live_ , to be given permission to thrive even if it was only through breathing. It is those times where those traitorous words are brought to mind regarding her lover: _What if I just took my knife and brought it to her throat and-_  But, then, she shakes her head and forces herself to sleep and embrace denial once more. _It will change, she said. I love you, she said..._

In another nation, far away, lays a man in his bed, not quite an elf and not quite a human. He is wracked with regrets, with things he should have said or done. He should have taken his mother by the hand and told her how much he loved her. He should have thanked the Keeper for having him and never complained about his loneliness. He should have stopped the magister from killing his apprentice a mere hour ago. His life consists of "should-haves" and "would-haves." He wonders, not for the first time, if this is how his father feels about him and Mother. However, he reminds himself that it is easier on him to forget, and he lets himself be at peace for a few moments.

To forget is tempting, even for the Dalish who swear to remember. However, loss is not less felt by the act of forgetting, as elves from the cities more than prove. For to forget is to stall the inevitable ache, crashing down around us until our whole world is gone. This is their reality, their day-to-day struggle against both themselves and the world around them. For the plight of the elves is as merciless and unyielding as their regrets, and loss can only be negated by gain, something that is never permanent for the pointy-eared race of man.

 

 

 


	10. Mother Tongue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> {Female Hawke/Isabela, Male Hawke/Fenris, Carver/Merrill}  
> Sometimes, their loves whisper, cuss, and moan out words in their mother tongue.

Hawke slipped into bed with her Pirate Queen, the Rivaini who stole her heart a million times over like the rogue she was. She felt a sense of deja vu, this scene becoming more and more frequent. With this, she wondered how frequent it would get before Isabela left again. _"I'm sorry,"_ She imagined the woman saying. _"I thought I could handle it. You deserve better."_ However, it did get rather frequent, and she saw no signs of regret in her eyes yet. This night, like hundreds of their other nights.

It was night, as their private time together was always at night, if at all. Usually, come morning, Isabela would wake first and leave with a saucy note and her scent on the sheets. Except, it was late night, nearing morning, and Isabela's sleep had not faltered. She tossed and turned in Hawke's bed, mumbling something almost incoherent, something strange in its urgency as if life or death. The syllables were of a foreign tongue, and the pronunciation sounded so natural from her lips that Hawke wondered if she were dreaming of her homeland. 

She remembered what Isabela told her of her mother and her marriage, and she frowned, worry lines gracing her face. Unable to resist coddling such vulnerability, rare as it was, she wrapped her arms around the pirate and hummed a lullaby until the desperation in Isabela's sleeptalk drifted away in the breeze from the open window.

 

* * *

 

 

Fenris was frustrated, again. Hawke knew the weight of his past was difficult and continuously _made_ it difficult. He sympathized, even if the elf did not want such a thing. Still, it wasn't as though it didn't hurt. Hawke couldn't help but be who he was: a mage. He was an apostate, raised in a family of largely apostates. He learned long ago not to hate himself for his magic.

Not that it still didn't hurt though, when Fenris went on like this.

He didn't have to have a working knowledge of Tevinter to know that his speech was peppered with swear words and curses. After knowing him for so long, he was starting to wonder if he could tell exactly what Fenris was talking about just from his tone of voice. Something mages, damn them _mages_. Something something magic is evil. Then, he turned and said something softly, gently, and Hawke just _knew_.

"I apologize," Fenris translated, able to read Hawke's expression so easily, "It was said in anger. I.. did not mean it."

"I know you didn't."

 

* * *

 

 

Merrill was surprised when Carver first asked her to teach him Elvish. He couldn't really blame her. Originally, it was just a thinly disguised way to spend more time with her. He thought she agreed to it just to spread more knowledge of Dalish culture, but, eventually, she kissed him and whispered something for him to translate - " _I like you,_ "- revealing a far different intention. Even years later, he could hardly believe half of what had happened. It was as though...ever since Kirkwall, his life was just one big snarled dream of monsters and happiness. It was stupid wishes granted and loved ones taken away.

He sat beside a sleeping Merrill at camp, a week since they escaped Kirkwall together. That city was gone, whatever having remained of its former dignity shattered. That blasted place could rot to hell for all he cared. It was Lothering that was his home. Maybe it was in Lothering he could be again. It wasn't as though either he or Merrill had a place anywhere anymore. Her clan no longer wanted her. The Templars no longer wanted him. They were free of all ties, and they could do as they wished.

Still, there was something to be said about ties - about Mother baking sweets in the kitchen, twin dancing around in joy, older brother teasing him, Father giving them a stern lecture. He remembered the Templars he idolized yet hid his sister from all the same. He remembered the speck of farmland they owned. He remembered how damn happy they were, and he wished he could go back to a time where he only _thirsted_ for adventure, rather than be drawn so easily into it.

" _Mmm...my love... come to bed..._ " mumbled a sleepy Merrill in her native tongue, and he moved to obey. Since Kirkwall, his life was but stupid wishes granted and loved ones taken far away. The worst part was, he wasn't sure if he'd have it any other way.

 

 


	12. Restraints

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Levon Adaar is a passionate man, a strange quality to see in a qunari.

Darkspawn. He _hated_ darkspawn. They were stupid and fumbling, yet they planned and, in doing so, thought themselves to be ever so _clever_. Levon certainly thought himself clever, but, at the very least, he acknowledged it was not as obvious as his temper. His rage engulfed, all-consuming. In those moments, he was no Inquisitor, no Tal-Vashoth, no damned man of his own making... but a tool of pure fury. Today, he tore through the hoard like it was nothing. Yesterday, he slaughter a few dozen peasants for the simple act of insulting his mother. The day before that, he stabbed a puppy.

No, really, he fucking stabbed a puppy.

There was a lot of self-loathing rattling around in that bronzed head of his. He was a horrid person when he gave way to anger, and he knew it. He wasn't going to lie to himself, as if he were perfectly justified. He felt like his self-control had been withered, smashed to smithereens. If only he had some tie, something or someone to ground him.

Perhaps in fear of him, his companions said nothing. One might look on in disapproval. However, that was a world's difference to actually voicing their opinions. It was easy to judge in the privacy of one's thoughts. To bring it up, though? It would certainly be suicide. Maybe there was wisdom in that, at least.

 


End file.
